ATHENA Mine is the right to add the final vote, And I award it to Orestes’ cause. For me no mother bore within her womb, And, save for wedlock evermore eschewed, I vouch myself the champion of the man, Not of the woman, yea, with all my soul,— In heart, as birth, a father’s child alone. Thus will I not too heinously regard A woman’s death who did her husband slay, The guardian of her home; and if the votes Equal do fall, Orestes shall prevail. Ye of the judges who are named thereto, Swiftly shake forth the lots from either urn. [_Two judges come forward, one to each urn._ ORESTES O bright Apollo, what shall be the end? CHORUS O Night, dark mother mine, dost mark these things? OSESTES Now shall my doom be life, or strangling cords. CHORUS And mine, lost honour or a wider sway. APOLLO O stranger judges, sum aright the count Of votes cast forth, and, parting them, take heed Ye err not in decision. The default Of one vote only bringeth ruin deep, One, cast aright, doth stablish house and home. ATHENA Behold, this man is free from guilt of blood, For half the votes condemn him, half set free! ORESTES O Pallas, light and safety of my home, Thou, thou hast given me back to dwell once more In that my fatherland, amerced of which I wandered; now shall Grecian lips say this, _The man is Argive once again, and dwells Again within his father’s wealthy hall, By Pallas saved, by Loxias, and by Him, The great third saviour, Zeus omnipotent—_ Who thus in pity for my father’s fate Doth pluck me from my doom, beholding these, Confederates of my mother. Lo, I pass To mine own home, but proffering this vow Unto thy land and people: _Nevermore, Thro’ all the manifold years of Time to be, Shall any chieftain of mine Argive land Bear hitherward his spears for fight arrayed._ For we, though lapped in earth we then shall lie, By thwart adversities will work our will On them who shall transgress this oath of mine, Paths of despair and journeyings ill-starred For them ordaining, till their task they rue. But if this oath be rightly kept, to them Will we the dead be full of grace, the while With loyal league they honour Pallas’ town. And now farewell, thou and thy city’s folk— Firm be thine arm’s grasp, closing with thy foes, And, strong to save, bring victory to thy spear. [_Exit Orestes, with Apollo._ CHORUS Woe on you, younger gods! the ancient right Ye have o’erridden, rent it from my hands.